“Just let it snap back,” I said when it looked like the two deputies were going to try and coil the wire after the cut. The remaining two strands were low enough that even I could hoist my bulk over without difficulty. “Walk the fence line along the road and along the two-track,” I said, pointing at the road to Reuben’s shack. “See where entry was made if you can.”
I walked a direct, careful line to the corpse, concentrating on the ground at my feet. Nothing marred the crumpled limestone. What dry grass blades had not been mowed down by cattle or deer stood pale and unbroken in the glare of the flashlight.
The corpse was lying on its side. Brown boots, blue jeans, lightweight down jacket over a brown cotton work shirt. Stuart Torkelson hadn’t changed his clothes since we’d talked earlier, not fifty yards from this spot. His head was a mess, with most of the forward vault of the skull missing.
I knelt down on one knee. There was a small puddle of blood under Torkelson’s head and another near his belt buckle. I frowned. If the realtor had dropped where he’d been shot, he’d be lying in an ocean of blood, bone, and brain tissue.
I swept the light in a circle, gradually working the beam out from the corpse. Stuart Torkelson had weighed 260 if he’d weighed an ounce. If he’d been shot first and then dragged, some marks would show, however faint. I stood up.
Encinos’s and Abeyta’s lights had stopped at a point about twenty feet up the two-track from the cattle guard. In the distance I could hear a siren and knew that the ambulance and coroner were only moments away. “What did you find?” I called.
“I think where they crossed over,” Encinos’s quiet voice replied. “Come look.” I retraced my steps, hopped the wire and walked around the corner of the fence to where the two deputies waited.
“The top wire is loose,” Deputy Abeyta said.
“That could have been that way for days…months,” I replied.
“I don’t think so,” Paul Encinos said. “The staple is right here.” He held the flashlight close to the ground. “It hasn’t been out of the wood very long. See the ends? They’re not rusted like the part that was exposed.”
He raised the light and held it three inches from the staple that secured the second wire. “And see? If you look real close you can see bright metal on the crown of this one, where it was pounded back in.”
I straightened up with an audible cracking of joints. “Maybe. Maybe not. There might be fifty explanations for that.”
“Yes, sir,” Encinos said. My skepticism hadn’t convinced him.
“If Torkelson was shot out here somewhere, we’ll find blood, bone, and bits of brain tissue. Somewhere. If the place is clean, then he was shot somewhere else, brought here and dumped. But I don’t believe that.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because it would be too much of a coincidence. The last place I saw him alive was right here, and he told me about an earlier confrontation of sorts. If he had enemies in town who killed him there, why would they choose this spot as a dumping ground? It doesn’t make sense.” I turned as first the ambulance and then another sedan rounded the corner and pulled to a jarring halt behind my car.
“Tony, go tell them to stay put for a while. We’ll call ’em when we’re ready.” The officer trotted off and I turned to Encinos. “We’ll take a set of photos of the body and the area tonight. Especially these staples. Use the close-up attachment. You up to that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. And I want sequence and grid photos. Start at the roadway and work your way in to the body. Then document the area around the body about five feet at a time as far out as you’ve got film. We might not be able to see a damn thing, but at least we’ll have some backup in case this weather brews some snow or rain. As soon as you’ve done that, let me know.”
I started back toward the vehicles, then stopped. “Are your keys in the Dodge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to borrow it for a few minutes.” I wasn’t about to crash and jar my way up the two-track and across two arroyos in the Ford sedan at night. That was one reason. The other was that I could leave Linda Rael, her notebook, and her camera parked in harmless ignorance while I went to visit Reuben Fuentes.
12
Dark closed in around the little cabin like a tight envelope. With no moon and obscured stars, the pockets under the pinons and junipers sank into absolute black. The lights from the Dodge were brilliant and harsh, cutting across the junk, the old bus, and the Ford Bronco. I parked and switched off the headlights. Without them, I couldn’t see Reuben Fuentes’s little cabin twenty feet beyond the front bumper.
Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the ink, and I could make out a glow drifting out of the single high window on the west wall. It was the window over the sink, and the wash of light was so faint that it was like looking at a star that shows up best when caught in the peripheral vision.
I opened the door of the Dodge, grimacing against the bright dome light. As I stepped out, I saw the slight figure backlighted in the now open doorway of the cabin.
“Buenas noches, Don Reuben,” I said and shut the truck door. I cradled my flashlight under my arm without turning it on.
“Come inside,” he said. He turned and vanished into the shadows. I felt a wave of relief that Reuben was all right, untouched by what had happened down at the road.
I stepped through the doorway and saw a single lamp across the room in the corner by the fireplace. The bulb couldn’t have been more than ten watts, the light further muffled by a dark brown shade that had once been burlap before the moths and spiders got to it. A book lay in the chair.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Reuben,” I said, pushing the door closed behind me.
“You want a beer?” He shuffled toward the refrigerator and I quickly held up a hand.
“No, really. Thanks just the same.” My refusal had no effect. He opened the small door and brought out first one brown bottle and then another. He set one by the sink and frowned.
“I don’t know where the opener is,” he said almost in a whisper. He rummaged through the detritus around the sink.
“It’s a twist-off,” I said. I reached over and opened one of the bottles, then handed it to him. I left the other on the counter, unopened.
“Sientese,” he said, indicating one of the two straight chairs. I chose the one without the cat.
“How have you been?” I asked.
“Since this morning? Bien.” He picked up the book that had been in his chair and sat down. “You have news of Estelita.”
“No. That’s next weekend, Reuben.” I leaned forward, rested my forearms on my knees, and folded my hands. There was no fire in the fireplace, but the cabin was snug and warm. “We’ve got us a problem down by the road.”
For a minute I thought he’d forgotten my presence and had started reading again. But after a bit he closed the book and carefully laid it on the small lamp table next to his beer bottle. His hands composed themselves in his lap and in the dim light I couldn’t tell if he was regarding me with interest or simply had his head pointed in my general direction.
“What kind of problem do you have?” Reuben asked.
“One of your neighbors got himself shot.”
“Lo siento. It happened earlier?”
“Yes. We think so. We don’t know when, for sure.”
Reuben shifted a little in his chair and groped in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He tamped both ends with care and then lit it with a kitchen match that he scratched against the stones of the fireplace. The smoke smelled too good…I damned near asked him for one myself.
“I heard two shots, senor. Two. I think it was two.”
“When was this, Reuben?”
“As I remember it was after the sun went down. Maybe seven o’clock. Maybe later. Maybe eight. I don’t remember with certainty.” He smoked in silence for a while. I was sure he was thinking the story through and I didn’t interrupt him. Finally he said, “I thought that it was probably hunters across the road.”